


It's the Little Things

by stardust_made



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Coda, Episode Tag, Gen, Some pining, s09e11
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-01-26
Packaged: 2018-01-10 03:02:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1153981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardust_made/pseuds/stardust_made
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A little peek inside Dean's head after the events in 9.11.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's the Little Things

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd - apologies for any mistakes. Spoilers for the episode.

 

The light in the motel room is weak, its colour muddy orange. It’s the kind of light that means a quiet room, no matter how loud you crank up the volume on the TV. Only another person’s presence can defy the oppressive combination of that light and its silence, but there’s no one else here. For the first time in his life Dean is considering paying a hooker for company and not for sex.  
  
His hand closes around his glass resolutely. He takes a large gulp, before opening a third browser window.  
  
Cain’s mark gives a particularly violent throb. He flinches and his fingers twitch to go to it and soothe it with the phantom coolness of the glass still lingering over their pads. Only the last time the whiskey tasted cold was over an hour ago. Cheap motels go with cheap ice machines. This one broke under Dean’s touch. He stared at it for a while, crushed by the simplicity of the message. It’s the little things.  
  
The mark is a big thing. Dean can’t even look at the red, disfigured skin on his lower arm without wanting to take his knife out and cut across the flesh to try to mute it. It’s a voice in his head; a hot, insistent brand not just on his skin but on his goddamn soul as well.  
  
Like Sam’s absence.  
  
Dean lifts the glass again.  
  
His eyes skim over the search page on the screen. He doesn’t even know why he opened the new window. He’s not drunk enough to be unable to read, but any sentence with more than a few words disintegrates immediately under his gaze. He squints at the page he’s got open in another window.  
  
Yes, Cain and Abel. It’s just something to do. Dean heard the tale from the horse’s mouth but it’s always wise to leave trust at the doorstep whenever you meet a weird son of a bitch who’s got anything to do with upstairs or downstairs—in this case both. Dean’s just trying to have himself covered, though it might be too little too late for that. There’s a burning imprint on him that feels like a sentence for a crime Dean’s not even committed yet.  The lifelong and beyond kind of sentence, and he was his own judge, too. ‘Brave’, ‘worthy’ and ‘impulsive’ Cain called him. Well, he got one of those right because who the fuck just jumps into a deal without reading even the normal print?  
  
Someone with no one there to stop him. No friend, human or heavenly. Just a demon watching out for his own game.  
  
Dean’s eyelids flutter shut and remain so for a few long moments, another phantom touch whispering against his shoulder. Not a memory this one; a fantasy. Sam’s hand, a little forceful but not rough. “Hold on,” Sam would have said. “You’re not taking Cain’s mark, Dean,” Sam would have said. “No, Dean,” Sam would have said. Firm and wary and smart.  
  
Dean should probably go to bed. He opens his eyes when the image of him sprawled across the bedspread in his clothes flashes behind his eyelids. He’ll have to make an effort now, to strip, to get under the covers...Thinking of calling hookers so he’s not alone, sleeping in his clothes…the freaking funeral parlour lighting and the motherfucking quiet. Dean should toast himself for keeping it together.  
  
What else is there to do?  
  
He closes the laptop lid and pushes himself back in his chair, using the edge of the table for leverage. A few answers are waiting for him by the time he’s standing on his feet; they don’t even sound slurred in his head. Kill Abaddon. Kill Crowley. Kill Gadreel. Kill, kill, kill until the big hand of the clock slows down. There ain’t turning it back, Dean knows that. His life is the smelliest, filthiest swamp and oh yeah, he is worthy, all right—he is its worthy king, wading through it while following one desperate chimera after another: purpose, meaning, direction. There’s always his North Star, of course. Only Dean is here now and the sky's turned as black as the spot under a raven’s wing on a midnight gravestone.  
  
Fuck that. He may be sinking, but he still knows where Sam is. Alone may sucks, but alone also protects. Not just Sam; Cas too. A week ago only, and Kevin would have still had the chance to be protected. That's the whole point. No more hapless victims to feed the swamp. Even today, even _today_ someone got pulled under. Dean can growl and punch Crowley all he wants but he knows the truth. Whose choice was it to leave that bar not with a hot piece of waitress ass but with a demonic, _royal_ asshole? Who took Crowley on his offer for a little hunting trip? Whose friend was Tara? Dead. Dad’s friend, a good hunter, a cool lady, who had made it to a ripe age in their line of work until Dean Winchester walked through her door, an abomination on his heels as his hunting partner. All comparisons Tara made between Dean and his father were an insult to John Winchester’s memory. In the absence of a grave in which to turn, Dad would have set himself on fire again if he’d seen Crowley in his lair today, brought in by his own flesh and blood. Hell, John Winchester would have had a thing or two to say to his eldest if he could trace Dean’s steps today.  
  
Especially the steps taking Dean further away from his little brother—so that'd be all of them.  
  
 _I’m doing it to protect him, Dad. I abandoned Sammy only to keep him safe and free of the swamp._  
  
There’s no winning, Dean thinks as he stumbles towards the bed. He hates himself for leaving Sam, but he’d have hated himself more if he hadn’t.  
  
He's a sorry son of a bitch, that's what he is. He just needs to get some shuteye, keep it together, kill some vermin and pay some meagre dues. Keep going. It’s fine. He’s fine.

 


End file.
